Down
by idreamof
Summary: Unrelated one-shots. Plotless angst/h/c/drama/friendship pieces. Let the whumping of the shrink begin.   1: Migraine  2:  Panic  Attack  3: Shrinking the Shrink  4: tag to Signs in the Silence  5: A Familiar Pain
1. Chapter 1

AN: I have no real medical knowledge. I try to look things up, but please excuse any errors. Also, I do not own anything you recognize.

Migraine

He knew he should have seen it coming. The signs were there: the fatigue, the stiffness in his neck, the dizziness… he'd passed off the symptoms as results of stress, sleeping in a bad position, standing up too quickly… anything but the prodromal symptoms of a migraine. He'd dragged himself out of bed, taken a shower, and gotten ready for work, and when he'd still felt like curling up and sleeping for a week, he'd assumed he was coming down with a cold.

He'd driven to work at the usual time, encountered the usual traffic, and seen the usual people in the lobby and elevator on his way to his office. Once there he'd dug out the folders of background information several agents had given him with requests for profiles, pulled out his computer, and tried to get to work. He'd slowly but surely finished the first, and struggled through the second as his vision started to blur in front of him, but by the time he got to the third he found himself unable to come to any conclusions as the pounding in his head built to near unbearable levels, throbbing through the right side of his head and resulting in increasing nausea.

Having inevitably caught on by this point to the fact that he would have, or really was already in the midst of a bad migraine, Sweets stiffly pushed himself out of his chair, wincing at the fluorescent lighting that glinted into his eye, and walked over to his jacket to dig through the pockets, hoping desperately that he'd remembered his emergency medication, since he'd very belatedly realized he'd forgotten to replace the one he usually kept in his office, and berating himself all the while for not having recognized or acted on the symptoms sooner. He blamed the fact that it had been over a month since his last really bad headache, and that he'd been absolutely swamped with profiling for several high-profile cases with the bureau. Really though, he knew that it having been so long since his last headache should have, with his history, made him wary of an upcoming one – being 'due,' so to speak. He also knew that he should have kept that in mind when he realized he had several important and inevitably stressful cases to work on, being aware that stress was often a factor in the development of a migraine. But none of that was helpful in the slightest, because as it was, he _hadn't_ caught it quickly enough, and he also, as he discovered with dismay, hadn't packed his medication.

Frustrated and very much in pain, Sweets turned off the lights in his office, revelling in the momentary relief the darkness brought, before stumbling over to the couch. Realizing that he didn't trust himself to keep his nausea in check, he pulled his trash can to him before lying down carefully, hoping to be able to sleep off a sufficient amount of the pain so as to be able to drive or bus home later, to his bed and his medication and the blissful silence of his apartment.

* * *

><p>"Bones!" Doctor Brennan looked up from her desk to see Agent Booth leaning against the doorframe of her office.<p>

"Oh, hey, Booth." He quirked a smile at her and sauntered up to her jingling his keys in his hand.

"You ready to go?" She nodded and stood up, picking up her purse. "Is the diner good with you?" She nodded again, and they both headed out to Booth's car.

The drive to the diner was spent mostly in amicable silence, with both the agent and anthropologist lost in thought, going over particulars of each of their sides of their current case. When they arrived outside the diner, Booth set the car in park and they both got out. Once inside, they ordered, and Booth pulled out a folder containing backgrounds on all the suspects in their case. He listened intently as she detailed all of the forensic evidence that the Jeffersonian team had put together that day, and then turned to the profiles, and rifled through them, his brow furrowed.

"I dunno, Bones. I mean, I know what you found is solid, but from what we know now, any of these people could have done it. Sweets…"

"Doctor Sweets bases his theories on guesswork and the soft science of psychology. He can't give us anything we can use to convict someone." Booth frowned at her, and opened his mouth to argue the merits of what Sweets did, but she spoke before he could: "But… I do admit that his work has led us in the right direction in the past, despite how baseless it is." Booth sighed, knowing that there was no use arguing the finer details.

"Sure. And yes, he has led us in the right direction before, and I gave him the backgrounds to work with two days ago, and I told him it was urgent, so I'm hoping he has it done by now. I was thinking we might drop by there after this to see if he's got it for us… talk about whatever insights he might have, you know. Maybe even take him a late lunch. He's been working late a lot lately – I know he got a bunch of cases from different agents pretty much all at once." Brennan looked up from her coffee, setting it down on the table after taking a last sip.

"You seem…" She frowned, trying to peg the emotion she could see glinting in her partner's eyes. She knew she'd come a long way with interpersonal relationships and reading people, but sometimes she still had trouble. Sweets had once assured her that everyone had trouble, sometimes. She'd found that reassuring, even though the knowledge didn't exactly help her when she couldn't figure someone out.

"I'm just a bit worried for him, Bones. He's just a kid – he should be out having fun every once in a while, but lately I've been seeing him at the Hoover building all the time. He gets there early, he works through lunch, he goes home late… I don't know if he eats."

"He lives alone, Booth. I'm sure he's more than capable of taking care of himself. And besides, you spend a lot of time at the FBI too. And I spend a lot of time at the Jeffersonian, as do Hodgins and Angela and Cam, and everyone else… and we're all fine."

Booth shook his head. "Sweets is so young, I just... and we went out for lunch every day this week, and out for drinks a few times too. Sweets turned us down all of those times. And Bones?" She looked up, eyebrows raised. "We have each other. We're partners. We look out for each other. Sometimes… sometimes I wonder who Sweets has."

* * *

><p>He'd thrown up twice, each bout sending new and increasing pain through his head, and he slept on and off, curled up tightly on the couch, his hands covering his face, his breathing strained. If he wasn't so scared of the pain that opening his eyes might bring, he might have checked the time, but as it was, all he knew was that it hadn't been long enough, because he was still in agony. All he could do at that point was try to sleep off the headache, and hope that nobody came knocking. And that his phone didn't ring. He prayed for a second that it was on silent.<p>

He attempted to shift into a slightly more comfortable position, but his couch was small, and it was surprising that he'd managed to squish himself into it in the first place. He did have a lot of practice folding himself into small spaces, though, and for as long as he could remember, he'd always slept curled up.

And that was when it happened.

The sharp rap on the door followed by the loud announcement of "Hey, Sweets, did you get those profiles done yet?" as it opened sent new spasms of pain through his head, and he couldn't help the soft sobs that left his mouth as he vomited violently into the trash can.

"Sweets?" Booth's voice was softer this time, but he still dry heaved again, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He'd always hated throwing up.

"Doctor Sweets, are you alright?" Brennan's voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you suffering from phonophobia?" Booth's forehead creased into a frown.

"He's afraid of…" Brennan put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should keep his voice down.

"Sound. It's a symptom of –" She was cut off by a muffled murmur from Sweets. "Doctor Sweets?"

"Migraine," was his barely audible response.

"Yes. It is a symptom of migraines, which, judging by Doctor Sweets's state, he is currently suffering from. Doctor Sweets?"

"Mmmmh."

"Do you have medication for this?" She looked around the room for a pill bottle or injection kit.

"Forgot it."

Booth looked at him worriedly before sighing and giving the room a quick cursory glance. "You can't stay here, Sweets. You need to go home, and take your meds, and get some real sleep, in a real bed. Any chance it's been getting better?"

"Mmm-mmh." Booth sighed again.

"So that's a no…how long does one of these things last, anyway?"

"Migraines in adults can last up to seventy-two hours." Booth looked at Brennan at that, a worried look on his face.

"That long?"

"Not necessarily, but it wouldn't be out of the norm."

Booth turned back to Sweets. "Well, you can't stay here, kid. Not even for half that long." Sweets gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, his face still buried in his hands. Booth sighed again and looked at Brennan before crouching down beside the psychologist. "Alright – so how about we get you up and go down to my car and drive you home. We'll take a bag just in case you feel sick again, and I'll even – just this once – let you lean on me all the way down. Is that okay?" In a moment of tenderness which he would deny forever, the agent reached up and gently carded his fingers through the psychologist's hair. Sweets gave a minute nod, and Booth stood up, turning to look at Brennan, who was picking up the trash can after tying a knot in the bag.

"I'll go deal with this, and get us a bag."

"M'sorry." Booth and Brennan turned to look at Sweets, who was squinting at them with shiny eyes, his pallor even more apparent now that he wasn't hiding his face. Booth quickly shook his head.

"Don't even worry about it, kid."

"Yes. I agree, Doctor Sweets. I know you would do the same for us." And with that, she walked out of the office, shutting the door gently behind her.

Booth watched the door for a moment more, before turning to the psychologist again, and then looking around the room. Silently, he started to pack up the papers on the desk, making sure to check which folders they belonged in, and then put them into the psychologist's briefcase, which he shut with a soft click. He then picked up the jacket that was slung over the back of one of the chairs, and dug into the pockets, checking for keys. Finding two sets, one of which was clearly to Sweets's car, he pocketed the other and walked back over to the couch. Tapping gently on the psychologist's shoulder, he carefully helped him to sit up as he groaned and brought his hand up to clutch at his head.

Sweets squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the nausea swelled again, and ground his teeth as he tried to bring it under control. Booth stood silently beside him, letting him take the time to get himself together. When he was finally convinced that he could move without throwing up again, he shifted forward on the couch, and braced himself, ready to stand. Booth was immediately there, putting a reassuring hand on his arm and helping up, and then putting an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Sweets pinched the bridge of his nose at the new onslaught of pain, but didn't have much time to dwell on it, because that was when Brennan returned with a garbage bag, and they were out the door. As they made their relatively slow way to the elevator and then down to the parking lot they received a few curious or worried glances, but nobody said anything, and they were soon all in Booth's car, with Sweets curled up in the back seat.

The ride to Sweets's apartment was spent in silence, and when Booth pulled up to park on the street outside, Sweets blearily looked up and squinted out the window, surprised that they had arrived already. Booth opened the back door then, and guided Sweets out of the car and toward the building as Brennan shut the door behind them and locked the doors of the SUV.

They took the elevator, and Booth kept his arm around Sweets up until they were in the apartment and Sweets was sitting down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and curling up underneath the covers.

"Sweets?" The psychologist peered up at the agent, his brow furrowed. "Where are your meds?"

Sweets shut his eyes again and was silent for a moment, before murmuring, "Bathroom. Bottom shelf behind the mirror." Booth nodded and walked out of the bedroom. Brennan then walked up beside the bed and looked down at the psychologist.

"Do you need anything else, Doctor Sweets?"

"Mmmh. No. But thank you, Doctor Brennan." They fell silent for a few minutes, and then Booth walked back in, carrying a box of vials and a syringe.

"Sumatriptan Succinate Injection. This it, Sweets?" Sweets murmured a confirmation, and started to sit up, and reach for the medication, but Brennan guided his hands back to his lap and took the set from the agent, and set to getting it ready. After helping the psychologist to administer the shot, Brennan put the empty vial aside and rearranged the covers over him.

"Are you alright, Sweets?" she asked.

"Mhm. Just need to sleep. Thanks. For everything." His voice was sounding increasingly drowsy. Brennan put her hand on his, comfortingly.

"Not a problem, Sweets."

"Yeah, kiddo. Don't mention it. And your car is still at the FBI, so call me tomorrow morning if you're good to go to work and I'll come pick you up. Alright?"

"Mhm."

"Atta boy." Booth patted the edge of Sweets's bed. "You need anything, just call, okay? I'm going to lock your door behind us, so I'll bring your keys when I come to pick you up. Sound good?"

"Mhm."

"Good."

And with that, the agent and the anthropologist took one last look at Sweets, and quietly made their way out of the apartment.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Sweets called Booth as promised, and by seven the agent was at his apartment, knocking on the door. Sweets grabbed his briefcase and jacket and hurried to unlock the door, and opened it to come face to face with the agent.<p>

"Sweets! Hey, buddy, how are you feeling?" Sweets gave a small smile.

"Much better, thank you, Agent Booth." He shut the door behind him and had started to dig in his pockets for his keys when Booth cleared his throat. Sweets looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"Sorry. I have them, remember? Took them last night." Sweets shut his eyes for a second and sighed, before looking back up at the agent.

"Right. Sorry. Forgot. I was kind of out of it." Booth laughed softly at that.

"That's an understatement, kiddo. You were _totally_ out of it." Sweets gave him a nervous smile.

"I'm really sorry, by the way, Agent Booth. You shouldn't have had to deal with that. I should have taken care of it myself." Booth's smile turned slightly sad at that.

"No. Sweets, you were in a lot of pain, and you needed some help, and that's okay. You're a good kid, buddy. Everyone needs a little help every once in a while – you just gotta let people give it to you."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: So to clear up some confusion: this isn't a multi-chaptered story; it's a bunch of unrelated one-shots that I lumped together because they all have one main topic: Sweets. And the whumping of Sweets and the angsting of Sweets and …yeah, you get it. I suppose you could read it as one story, but that would mean that Sweets has a LOT of problems… but hey, I suppose that isn't so bad (in the world of fanfic – in real life someone having that many problems would be very upsetting).I may pick a few of these and take them out if I feel like majorly continuing them, but I don't really know yet. Thanks for the reviews!

Warnings: Language

Panic Attack

"Hey Sweets, can you stand right there?" The psychologist looked at Doctor Hodgins with raised eyebrows, but obligingly moved into the requested position. "Awesome. Now don't move."

"Doctor Hodgins, if this is an experiment I'm not sure if I…" His eyes widened and he fell silent as Hodgins picked up a bat and started to walk toward him. The psychologist nervously brought his hands up in front of him. "Doctor Hodgins…"

"Don't worry, Sweets. Won't hurt at all." And with that he moved to stand behind Sweets and brought the bat up onto his shoulder. Sweets craned his neck around, attempting to keep his eyes on the entomologist. "So I think that the killer first swung at him like –" He swung the bat, being careful to stop it before it actually hit the psychologist, and then moved his grip so that he could jab it instead of swing, "And then used it to push the victim like –" but before he could play out the next part of his scenario, he noticed that Sweets was curled up on the ground in the foetal position. "Hey, Sweets? Buddy – the victim wouldn't have curled up like that right away, he would have doubled… Sweets?" A hint of worry edged into his voice as the psychologist still didn't move, his breathing obviously heavy from the way his shoulders hitched. "Sweets?"

The entomologist dropped the bat and crouched down beside the psychologist and put his hand on his shoulder as Cam, Angela, and Arastoo crowded around. Sweets was very clearly shaking and had yet to uncurl himself when the barrage of worried questions started. He made no verbal reply to them, but after a few seconds, he suddenly stood on shaky legs, pushed past Hodgins, and ran.

Hodgins gave Cam a panicked look. "Shit – did I actually hit him?" The pathologist looked back at him with wide eyes and shook her head.

"I … no, I'm pretty sure you didn't." Hodgins gave her a quick look of confusion before taking off after the psychologist. She turned to Angela and Arastoo. "He didn't, did he?" They both shook their heads. Angela had her hand over her mouth, and Arastoo just looked at where the pair had been standing with a confused look on his face.

Sweets ran as fast as his quavering legs could carry him to the bathroom closest to the lab in the Jeffersonian, and once there, slipped inside and quickly locked the door behind him. He could feel his chest constricting, nausea building, and his hands shaking. Unable to blink away the dizziness, he leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. His heart was racing. When he suddenly felt the nausea become overwhelming, he crawled over to the toilet, and, leaning over it, retched miserably. It was only when he leaned back, gasping for air with tears that he noted absently running down his pale cheeks , that he noticed the knocking on the door.

"Sweets!" What had started as tentative knocking had turned frantic as the minutes ticked by without the psychologist making so much as an indication that he was alright, much less coming out of the bathroom. "Sweets… come on, buddy, talk to me. I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry, alright? I should have asked you before using you in a demonstration. Cam said I didn't hit you, and I really hope I didn't but if I did you gotta come out, kid. If you're hurt we need to get you help! Please, Sweets…Sweets?"

Sweets found himself unable to interpret the jumble of sounds that was Hodgins's panicked shouting, so lost was he in the memories that kept tumbling out of the corners of his mind, in the numbing fear, the dizziness, the way the temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees…He knew in the back of his mind that he was being irrational. He knew he hadn't been hurt, and he knew that Hodgins would never have actually hit him on purpose; he knew that he wasn't in any danger. The panic, however, continued to take over his mind and body.

He thought absently about the pills he knew were in his pocket. He knew that he had a panic disorder, and he knew that he'd suffered from panic attacks for as long as he could remember. He also knew that it wasn't his fault that, despite years and years of therapy and education, the occasional attack still slipped by his defenses and calming techniques. Despite all that knowledge, however, he couldn't bring himself to take the pill. He was a trained psychologist. He shouldn't need pills. What he needed was to get out of that bathroom and away from everyone who was probably mocking his lack of control. He needed out, and he needed it desperately.

Hodgins jumped back as the door opened and Sweets stormed through, his face pale but determined, a glint of panic still shining in his eyes. "Sweets? Buddy I'm so sorry… I… where are you going?" He turned to watch as the psychologist stormed right past him and kept walking, seemingly unaware of all the people who were watching his exit apprehensively. "Sweets?"

Sweets stared determinedly ahead as he made his way out of the building and to the parking lot, where he unlocked his car with shaking hands and, after getting in and shutting the door behind him, leaned his head against the steering wheel, trying to force his still unsteady breathing into a more natural rhythm.

He sat there for another minute or so before jerking up at the sound of the passenger door opening. He turned with wide eyes to see Doctor Hodgins slipping into the car. The entomologist shut the door behind them and turned to the younger man, looking at him seriously.

"What the _hell _was that?" The psychologist said nothing, continuing to stare with wide, frightened eyes at the entomologist. "Sweets?"

"I…" What was it? The psychologist thought of the utter panic he had felt when he'd noticed the bat coming closer and closer to him, of the memories of a different bat, of belts, of fists, of frying pans… of torrents of accompanying verbal and emotional abuse. "I… I don't…" He thought of the way his breathing sped up, the way his heart started racing, the way the room was suddenly far too cold, despite how it had been perfectly comfortable only moments before. "I…"

"I get it." The unexpectedness of that statement snapped Sweets out of his stupor.

"What?"

"I get it." Hodgins was now looking at him earnestly. "You had a bat swung at you and it freaked the hell out of you. It makes sense." Sweets was still dumbfounded.

"I...What?"

"I'm hoping that's what it was, anyway… I really, really hope I didn't hit you." Sweets struggled to string a coherent sentence together to assuage the entomologist's worries.

"You didn't."

"Good. Still, I should have told you that I was going to swing a bat at you." The psychologist managed a wavering smile at that.

"It's okay."

"But it's not, right? It freaked you out."

"No… I… I just…" The entomologist held up a finger to silence the younger man's stutters.

"It's perfectly understandable. Unexpected wooden bats coming at you? Scary stuff, dude. It's okay to flip out."

"No!" Sweets couldn't help the exclamation. Hodgins looked at him calmly.

"Why not?"

"I… because… I…" Hodgins continued his infuriatingly calm stare. "I'm a psychologist!" The entomologist raised his eyebrows.

"Ah… So?" Sweets frowned.

"So… So I'm a psychologist!" Hodgins grinned at him.

"You said that already. Again – so?"

"So… So I shouldn't freak out!" Hodgins's smile grew.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Why shouldn't you freak out?" Sweets turned away from the entomologist, and, gripping the wheel with a white-knuckled grip, he stared out at the parking lot.

"Because… because that's my job! I don't panic. Other people panic. They panic and they come to me and I teach them techniques to deal with it. I know almost every technique in the book and I still… I shouldn't! If I were worth even the slightest bit as a psychologist I'd be able to… to not…" He rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Hodgins shifted around to face forward, and there was silence in the car as they both stared at the parking lot for a moment. Then Hodgins spoke up, though he didn't turn back to face the other man.

"I hate earwigs." Sweets turned back to Hodgins, but Hodgins continued to stare straight ahead.

"You do?" Sweets's voice was almost clinical, but Hodgins could detect a hint of the confused and frightened kid he'd been that day.

"I do. Don't ask me why, because I have no idea, and it's not like any other bugs freak me out, just… earwigs. And I swear, they're _everywhere. _There's just something about them, you know?" Sweets nodded and turned back to the windshield. "They're creepy. I mean, I've learned to grit my teeth and deal with them, because I have to, but they still kinda make me twitch a little. You know?" Sweets nodded. "But you know all about irrational fears, right? Because you're an _excellent_ psychologist." Sweets's pale cheeks flushed slightly. "You are. You're damn good at your job, from what I hear, and you've helped all of us through all kinds of crap. Don't sell yourself short. I'm a well-respected entomologist, and I'm afraid of earwigs, and you're a crazy prodigy shrink and you freak out sometimes, and that's okay."

"I have panic attacks," Sweets murmured softly, still staring out into the distance. Hodgins grinned.

"See? You know your stuff, buddy."

Sweets let go of the steering wheel and reached into his pocket, pulling out an orange prescription bottle. Turning it around in his hands, he re-read the sticker, just as he'd read it so many times before. The bottle was full. "I still shouldn't have these." Hodgins leaned over to look at the bottle.

"What are they for?"

"I was supposed to take one."

"For the panic attack?" Sweets picked at the label with his nail.

"Yes."

"Did you?" Sweets was silent for a moment as he continued to pick at the prescription label.

"No." Hodgins looked at him worriedly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dumb. I shouldn't need them."

"Sweets, you're a psychologist. You of all people should know that stuff like this isn't dumb."

"I'm a psychologist. I should be able to deal without the pills." Hodgins sighed, slapping his hands on his knees and rubbing his palms on his thighs.

"Sweets, buddy… So, what… it's dumb when it happens to you?"

"Yes."

"Dude, that's one hell of a double standard."

"I spent years in school. It should mean something." Hodgins turned to the psychologist and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Dude. It does. Or have you forgotten all the people you've helped? You helped me, you know?" Sweets still stared stonily at his knees. "Come on, look at me. Please." Reluctantly, Sweets turned to face the entomologist, and Hodgins put his other hand on Sweets's other shoulder. "You got me through all that stuff with Angela – sneakily and shrinkily got me to all the realizations and self-acceptance stuff I needed, because that's what you do, right?" When Sweets remained silent, the entomologist huffed a sigh. "Come on, repeat after me: yes, that's what I do." Sweets was quiet for a moment longer, and Hodgins was about to repeat his request when the psychologist finally spoke up.

"Yes, that's what I do."

"I help lots of people."

"I help lots of people," Sweets responded dutifully.

"I'm awesome."

"I'm awesome," he repeated as a blush started to grow on his cheeks.

"And kind of cool, even though I'm a foetus." Sweets just grinned and rolled his eyes. "Come on, dude." Hodgins looked at him with wide, earnest eyes, with just of a hint of humour glinting in them.

"And kind of cool, even though I'm a foetus."

"And even though I have over nine thousand ninja mind tricks…"

"And even though I have over nine thousand ninja mind tricks…"

"If I need my pills, I will take them." Sweets was silent, his grin replaced by a small frown. "Sweets…" Sweets still said nothing, but managed a nod. The entomologist tilted his head at the other man, but then shrugged. "Close enough. And get help if I need it." Sweets just nodded again, and Hodgins clapped him on the shoulder before turning back to stare out the front of the car. "Cool. Now, how about we go get some lunch. The others can stew for a while. The foetus needs feeding." Hodgins turned his head to look back at Sweets. "Or maybe a beer."

Sweets smiled softly and put the key in the ignition, starting the car. As they started to move Hodgins leaned his head back against the headrest with a sigh. "I'm in a car and a child is driving. Save me." Sweets just started humming as he sharply turned a corner.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Pointless, plotless Sweets-Angela fluff/friendship. Sometimes you don't notice when you've taken on too much.

Also, if anyone has any requests/prompts I'd be glad to hear them (no guarantees though).

Enjoy :)

Shrinking the Shrink

Sweets smiled and nodded his thanks to the waiter as their food was set down in front of them, and then looked back at Angela. He'd come to the diner on his lunch break on a request from the artist. He was on a tight schedule, but he always tried to make a point of making time for a friend in need. If this meeting meant staying an extra hour at the bureau at night, he was more than willing to do so. He was always honoured when the people he considered his friends came to him for advice.

"So, what's on your mind, Angela?" The artist sipped her coffee, looking over the rim of her mug at the psychologist. She raised an eyebrow. "What?" Sweets frowned.

"Can't I invite you out to lunch without having something I need to discuss?" Sweets gave a small smile at that.

"Yes, but you… never do." Angela's expression turned sad.

"I don't?" Sweets, having become aware of her change in mood, hastened to reassure her.

"It's perfectly alright, Angela. I like having you guys come to me for help. It's what I do. It's why I got this degree and this job."

"Yeah, but you need… other stuff, too."

"I'm very satisfied with my work." Angela shook her head.

"Come on, sweetie, you're a shrink. You should know that it's not healthy to not live outside of work." Sweets picked up his spoon and started to turn it around in his hands. He was quickly becoming uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading.

"I do, though."

"Do you?" Angela raised her eyebrows questioningly. "Who was the last person you went out to eat with?"

"That's a personal question, Ms. Montenegro, I don't think…"

"See?" She cut him off. "You're avoiding the problem. 'Ms. Montenegro' – you've been calling me Angela for ages now, even I know that you're reverting to '_Ms. Montenegro'_ to keep me at a distance."

"Ms. Montenegro… Angela… I…" Sweets sighed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb.

"Who did you go out to eat with? It's a simple question, Sweets." The psychologist sighed again, and was silent for a moment before speaking up.

"Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan."

"And was this a social call?"

"I… We discussed a case." Angela reached across the table and put her hand on the psychologist's.

"I don't know what you see us as, Sweets, but I know that we – everyone at the Jeffersonian – really do appreciate your help, and enjoy your company. I don't know if you just see this as a work arrangement –"

"I don't."

"Well, good, because we don't either." Sweets blushed slightly.

"I wasn't sure… sometimes… I…yeah." His blush deepened.

"Sweetie, we do like you. And I know Jack is sometimes a bit harsh, and that Brennan sometimes seems overly clinical, but I know for a fact that they, and I, and Cam, and especially Booth really do like you. So don't be afraid to make plain old social calls, alright?" Sweets smiled shyly.

"Yeah." He paused, fiddling with his napkin. "So you really had nothing to talk about?" It was Angela's turn to blush, then.

"Well…" Sweets's smile faded at that, and he put his napkin down.

"You know I'm always here for whatever you need to talk about, right? I…" He trailed off as Angela took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it gently.

"I actually wanted to talk about you."

"I…what?" Sweets frowned, confused.

"Sweetie, everyone's worried."

"What?" Sweets seemed unable to comprehend what was going on. "Why?"

"Honey, look at yourself." Sweets looked down at himself, still utterly confused. "You're thin."

"I… yes?" He picked at the top button on his shirt, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable with the situation.

"You haven't noticed that you're looking thinner?" Angela shook her head. "Anyway, we hardly ever see you around the lab anymore unless you're working directly on a case." She grinned. "Believe it or not, even Hodgins misses you badgering him with psychobabble." Sweets's pale cheeks darkened into a blush again, and he looked down at the table, wringing his hands. "So what happened?" For a moment, Sweets was silent, unable to string together the necessary words. "Sweets?"

"I've… been busy."

"Sweetie, we're all busy, we still see each other. We also still eat."

"I… but you guys work together. I work at the bureau. Different place, so I don't…"

"Sweetie, you need to take some time to yourself. How old are you, twenty four?"

"Yeah."

"Honey, when I was twenty four I was having the time of my life, partying all the time, meeting new people… I'd just finished with school, was doing odd jobs and drawing caricatures for some money on the side… I was having fun. You, on the other hand, don't seem to do much other than work." She looked at him worriedly. "You gotta loosen up a bit, sweetie. Be young while you are." Sweets picked at a fingernail.

"I just… I need to work. It keeps me… I dunno, sane. Purposeful." Angela gave him a sad smile.

"Yeah, but you also need to eat, and you need to relax, and you need to interact with other people." Sweets quirked a smile.

"Angela, I work as a psychologist – my job is to interact…"

"Yeah, but you need to do it, you know… casually." Sweets raised an eyebrow.

"So you're here to talk about my lack of a social life?" Angela slapped the table lightly.

"Yes."

"Angela… I appreciate your concern but…"

"But nothing, Sweets. We are going to sit here, and we are going to have a casual lunch with some casual conversation that isn't at all psychological or related to a case, alright? And you are not going to ask leading questions and you are not going to psychoanalyze me."

Sweets just blinked. "Um… alright." He cleared his throat, uncomfortably. "I'm… I'm sorry if I psychoanalyze you too much. I'm sure it's annoying, and I really do apologize if I've ever made you uncomfortable or pried too much or just…"

"_Sweets."_ She cut him off. "Sweetie, don't apologize for it. You've helped all of us through a lot, you know." Sweets looked at her apprehensively. "Hey. Don't give me that sad puppy look, with your ginormous brown eyes and…no. Just stop. This is a happy, casual meal." She shook her head, organizing her thoughts. "Alright, first off, you've helped us all through lots of stuff, and we're all grateful. And a shrink, a psychologist, is who you are – and with the people that love you you should never have to apologize for who you are. So don't apologize… because we love you… in case you didn't get where I was going with that." Sweets smiled.

"Yeah."

"Right. Secondly… well, I don't really have a secondly, but now I'd really like you to eat that," she pointed at the mostly untouched plate of food in front of the psychologist, "and tell me what's got you wound up like one of those giant balls of rubber bands… you know what I mean?" Sweets grinned.

"Yeah, I had one in college."

"But seriously, sweetie, what's up?" Sweets started wringing his hands nervously again.

"I… um… I've just had a lot of work to do." Angela nodded.

"Lots of cases?"

"Yeah, I've been profiling for several different agents, and most of them are high profile cases. It's… hard, sometimes, to find time to myself." Angela nodded understandingly.

"Sometimes, with the work we do, it's tough to put personal things above a stressful case."

"Yeah. Exactly… I just… yeah."

"But you can't keep running yourself ragged, sweetie. You need to sleep, you need to eat…" She looked at him seriously. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know…Sometimes I don't even notice…" Angela gave him a small smile.

"Well, that's what friends are for, sweetie. To notice that you're in trouble, even when you don't."


	4. Chapter 4

AN: An itty bitty tag to "The Signs in the Silence." Also, thank you SO MUCH to everyone for the reviews, it really means a lot. I re-read them over and over because they make me SO happy. Thanks for the prompts, too. I'll try to get to as many as I can.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize I don't own.

"Doctor Sweets." Sweets looked up from his seat in the diner at the anthropologist. He'd come alone for a brief lunch and to gather his thoughts before heading back to the bureau to finish up with some paperwork from the case.

"Hey, Doctor Brennan. I'm… I'm really sorry, by the way."

"You appeared to be very upset, the other day in the diner."

"Yeah, I… It's not your fault. I know you're not as cold as some people might think you are."

"I know." She sat down beside him and shifted to face him. "I know you know I'm not cold. I used…" She paused, looking down at her knees for a moment before looking determinedly back up at the psychologist. "I used to let people think I was, even if I really wasn't. It made me feel safer – like people couldn't hurt me. Now, though, I sometimes… let people see." Sweets quirked a small smile and looked down at this hands, which were clasped tightly on his lap.

"Yeah. I know." Brennan looked at him seriously.

"The main reason I have been letting people see is Booth, you know." Sweets nodded. "However… another big reason I have been able to do so is… you." The psychologist looked up from his lap at that, slightly surprised, but still avoided her gaze. "You've helped me a lot, you know." She looked at him with wide, earnest eyes. "I may not believe in psychology or the so-called science and theory behind it, but I cannot deny that talking to you, and following your advice has helped me… connect with other people more thoroughly than I have ever been able to before." Sweets looked at her then, with slightly red eyes.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Brennan. I really am. I didn't mean to be harsh with you. I know you're – "

"I know you know," she cut him off. "Doctor Sweets…" She sighed, before tentatively reaching out, and finally taking his hand in a firm grasp. "Doctor Sweets, I know you… you spoke to me about my own childhood and the… the pain there… to get me to understand about Amy, but… I know that… that you had similar experiences in the system, so I can only assume that this… mental turmoil I am experiencing must be affecting you too." Sweets buried his face in his hands.

"I…" He sniffed, trying desperately to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall. "I…I know, sort of, what she… she must have been feeling." Brennan nodded understandingly.

"Yes, I know, you told me so at the Jeffersonian, remember?"

"No… I mean, yes, I remember, but I understand… differently." He looked up at the anthropologist then, willing her to understand. He knew he hadn't given her nearly enough information for her to draw the correct conclusions, brilliant though she was, but a part of him wished he wouldn't have to say it – wouldn't have to drag back up those awful memories. When she continued to look at him expectantly he took a deep breath, knowing he couldn't make her understand any other way.

"Doctor Sweets?"

"I… Doctor Brennan, I… I was put into the system as a baby. I never knew my biological parents. Never even went home from the hospital with them. I, um… When I was three I was placed with a couple… and… well… they weren't particularly pleasant. The worst they did, physically, was break my arm and bruise a few ribs but it went on for… five months, almost, and somewhere along I just… I stopped talking. They didn't even report that. They… I was taken away when they brought me in for the broken arm. I wouldn't speak, but… I screamed. It hurt. I don't really remember it, but I remember screaming because it hurt so bad. They finally took me in because they couldn't get me to be quiet, and they were arrested, and I was taken away. I stayed in a group home, then, for a few months. They had a therapist come in, but… they gave up. Figured I just wasn't going to talk. I learned to sign, but I hardly used that, either." He ducked his head, hoping to hide his tears. He'd made sure to keep his voice down, but he could see the waitress at the counter looking at them intently. The diner was loud, though, since it was the lunch rush, and he hoped it was loud enough that she couldn't hear them.

The anthropologist looked at him sadly and gripped his hand tighter. "When…?"

"I didn't say another word until about a year and a half after I started living with my parents."

"Oh. Was there a physiological reason why you couldn't speak?"

"No. I just… I was scared. I was so scared it was like I physically…couldn't speak." Brennan nodded.

"So you empathized with the girl."

"Yes. I… I remember what it was like to not be able to say anything as I was passed around from adult to adult, and to be poked at and… to be so, so scared. To not trust anyone. I was never deaf, so I cannot understand her there, nor do I know what it's like to be in her specific situation but…"

"You still understand a lot of what she's going through."

"Yes."

"And you wanted to make sure that I understood too, because you knew I had the experiences to draw from." Sweets sighed.

"Yes."

The anthropologist put her other hand over the psychologist's and smiled gently at him.

"Booth sometimes says that you talk too much, but I, for one, am glad that you do, and that you can." Sweets gave her a shaky smile. "And… I feel I have become much more adept, recently, at judging when people mean the things that they say, and… I do believe that Booth is thankful that you talk the way you do, too, even if he sometimes says otherwise. He once told me he has a … defective place… when it comes to you."

Sweets blushed. "A soft spot."

"Yes!" The anthropologist looked excited. "I think I'm getting much better at these colloquialisms, don't you?" The psychologist chuckled softly.

"Yes, Doctor Brennan. You are getting much better."


	5. Chapter 5

AN: I don't own anything you recognize. I have no idea how plausible this is (this applies to anything I write haha). Enjoy.

A Familiar Pain 

"Hey, Bones, I'm going to head back to the Hoover building to talk to Sweets about the profiles he was going to do for this case – do you want to come with me?" Brennan nodded, taking her gloves off and hanging up her lab coat.

"I have gathered all the possible evidence I can from the bones at this point in time. Once Hodgins finishes analyzing the particulates found on them I will have more leads to follow." The agent nodded, pulling his car keys out of his pocket.

"Awesome. Ready to go?" Brennan nodded, slipping her jacket on as she followed the agent out of the Jeffersonian and to his SUV. They drove down the streets toward the FBI building, chatting idly about the latest happenings at work, touching occasionally on more serious topics regarding their current case. When they parked, Booth opened the door for Brennan, and she stood, straightening her skirt. They made their way through the building and up to the psychologist's office in relative silence, but when they got there they were surprised to find it empty.

"Sweets?" Booth called pointlessly into the obviously empty room. "Huh. He's usually here."

"He does have other duties, doesn't he?" Brennan said, craning her neck to look around the agent into the Sweets's office.

"I suppose. I guess I just expected him to be here. He usually is."

"Doctor Brennan's right, Agent Booth." Both the anthropologist and the agent jumped and whipped around to see Sweets grinning at them a little lopsidedly, his head tilted to the side. However, neither Brennan nor Booth saw the smile.

"Sweets…_what happened_?" Booth's eyes were wide as he brought a hand up, his fingers coming up to almost touch the psychologist's face on the darkened, bruised skin on his cheekbone, just below what was obviously developing into a painful black eye. Sweets's smile fell and he shifted uncomfortably.

"It's nothing."

"_Sweets_." The agent's concerned look did not relent. "Tell me."

"It's really nothing, Agent Booth."

"Kid, I know my injuries and that is _not_ a run of the mill, tripped and fell type of bruise. Somebody hit you." The psychologist sighed.

"I can't tell you."

"Can't, or won't?" The agent reached a hand out, putting it on the psychologist's shoulder. "Sweets, come on."

"I can postulate, based on the location and intensity of the bruising that –"

"_No._" Sweets's quickly turned his head to look at the anthropologist, who had, up until that point, been silent. "I mean… I'm sorry, Doctor Brennan, but there is really nothing for you to analyze. I'm fine, and this is nothing, and there's nothing you need to look into. It won't happen again." He looked earnestly to the agent and back at the anthropologist. "I'm asking you now as my friends and also as my colleagues to leave this alone. _Please_." Booth and Brennan exchanged a worried look, but obligingly kept silent, and after the psychologist had walked around them, followed him into his office.

Sweets still felt uncomfortable, but attempted to keep a neutral look on his face as he sat down in his chair across from Booth and Brennan, who were seated on the couch. "So… guys… not that I'm not thrilled that you've come here, into my office, of your own will," he laughed nervously, "but what did you come here for?" Booth frowned.

"I told you yesterday I'd come to check up on those profiles today, remember?" The psychologist shifted awkwardly, nodding.

"Right. Sorry, Agent Booth. I forgot."

"I also wanted to ask you to help with an interrogation later today," Booth said slowly, his focus and gaze kept steadily on the psychologist, trying to read any possible clues on the younger man's face as to what had happened.

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Booth thought he detected a quiver in the psychologist's voice, but there was no way of being sure. Nevertheless, he suspected that Sweets was hiding something. He was rattled – the agent was sure of it. He wished that he could pester Sweets until he revealed what had happened and what was bothering him, but Booth knew that, despite his need to help others and gently push them to reveal their innermost workings, the psychologist was an intensely private person, and any kind of questioning would probably be unsuccessful if the psychologist wasn't willing to divulge.

Still reluctant to give up, but having realized that they wouldn't be given any information at that moment, Booth took the files from the psychologist, and he and Brennan left the room and made their way up to the agent's office. When he'd shut the door behind him he turned to his partner, frowning slightly.

"So what do you think, Bones?" The anthropologist looked up from where she had absently been looking at some of the things hung on the wall, despite how she'd seen them countless times before. She sighed.

"I don't know, Booth. The bruising looks very, very recent. I would think it happened this morning, even." She gave him a worried look. "Do you think he got into a fight?" Booth rubbed his face with his hand, shaking his head.

"No. That's not like Sweets. I… He seemed upset."

"Getting a black eye would probably be upsetting." Booth shook his head.

"No, he seemed… I don't know… just… upset. I might even say shaken." She resisted telling him that he just had, but shook her head, not knowing what else to say.

They let the matter drop for the moment and continued about with their work, trying not to think about the kid that had wormed his way into their lives and hearts and the anger they both felt at the boy who they both secretly thought of as their baby duck being hurt.

Their answer didn't come to them until late in the evening, after Brennan had gone back to the lab. Booth had gone to grab a cup of coffee from the floor's coffee maker when he ran into another agent who had a desk nearby.

"Agent Booth!" Agent Williamson was about six years Booth's junior, a smart and dedicated agent, and a generally kind man. "Did you hear what happened?" Booth shook his head, not particularly interested in bullpen gossip, but willing to listen anyway. "Doctor Sweets –" Booth's head shot up.

"_What_?" Williamson held up his hands.

"Woah, woah, I was about to tell you." Booth took a deep breath, willing himself to appear unworried. The younger man's bruised face jumped to the forefront of his mind and he felt his agitation rise in anticipation of maybe finally finding out what had happened. "He has a black eye." Booth slumped slightly, disappointed.

"Yeah, I saw him this morning."

"Agent Moore gave it to him." At this Booth felt his anger threaten to take over.

"_What?" _The younger agent looked slightly nervous, and held up his hands again in an attempt to placate the older man.

"Woah… yeah, he… apparently he was in a session with the kid – you know he'd gotten in trouble a few times for losing it in the interrogation room – and just got pissed at the questions he was asking, and lost it." Booth pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. He could not go beat up another agent, no matter how much he wanted to. Nobody got to hurt Sweets. The kid had been hurt enough already, and Booth, reluctant though he might be to admit it, was definitely fond of the psychologist, and was also most definitely protective of him. "Hacker was pissed." Booth looked back up at the other agent.

"What happened to Moore?" Williamson shrugged.

"He left. Apparently he told Agent West that he was taking some time off to get himself sorted out… but like, indefinite leave. Word is that Doctor Sweets even defended him when he was facing being let go… some psychobabble about how he has things to work through or whatever – he's troubled and whatnot. So Moore still has a job to come back to, if he can be officially proclaimed in an acceptable mental state, I guess. He owes the kid big, if you ask me. Plus the poor guy has a wicked shiner. He looks like a damn kicked puppy."

Booth sighed, feeling a headache coming on. He didn't know the details of Sweets's past, but he knew that it had definitely not been all good. He thought back to when Brennan had told him of the scars on Sweets's back, and his anger at what Moore had done grew. Sweets had come so far from his childhood trauma, and he really didn't deserve having to put up with being hit at work. Admittedly, he had sometimes felt frustrated while forced to sit through mandatory therapy, but he had never once even laid a finger on the psychologist during a session. It was unacceptable. Since the other agent seemed to be done talking, Booth gave him a forced smile, and, abandoning his idea of coffee altogether, made his way directly down to the psychologist's office.

"Sweets!" He didn't hesitate at the door, letting himself into the room. Sweets looked up, slightly surprised, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Agent Booth… sorry, you startled me. What is it?" He frowned when he noticed the agent's agitation. "Is something wrong?"

"Moore hit you!" Sweets looked at the floor then, avoiding the agent's gaze.

"It's not… It doesn't matter, Agent Booth."

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters!" Booth was getting increasingly frustrated at the psychologist's apparent refusal to acknowledge what had happened, and his voice continued to rise with his anger.

"Agent Booth…"

"I hate that you won't tell me anything."

"I can't."

"No, I think you won't."

"Booth."

"_Sweets."_

"I'm fine."

"Your face is purple, Sweets. Normal faces aren't purple."

"My eye is purple. There's a difference."

"Stop being a smartass." Booth gestured wildly while Sweets sat infuriatingly calmly in his chair.

"I'm not."

"You're being a smartass because you're upset," the agent pointed an accusing finger.

"No, I'm not," Sweets shook his head.

"Yes you are."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I may not be a psychologist but even I can tell that you're not fine."

"I am fine."

"Nope. I don't buy it."

"I am."

"No you're not. I saw you earlier today."

"I was fine then too."

"No you weren't. I could tell that you were rattled. I could see it in your ginormous eyes and your twelve year old face. You were freaking out about something, but you wouldn't tell me what. Now I'm here, and we're alone, and you still refuse to even acknowledge that what happened did actually happen and it's making me crazy because –"

"I was scared." Booth continued his tirade over the psychologist's soft murmur for several seconds before he realized that the younger man had spoken.

"You… what?" Sweets wrapped his arms around his stomach, hunching over slightly as if he were trying to protect himself. Booth took a tentative step forward. "Sweets?"

"I was scared." Sweets repeated, his voice still soft. Booth sat down on the couch, across from him.

"It's understandable, Sweets. The guy is like, half a foot taller and at least eighty pounds heavier than you. He's huge," Booth grinned nervously. "Must have packed one hell of a punch, huh?" Sweets still wouldn't look up at the agent, and started wringing his hands agitatedly.

"He remin- … He startled me." Booth frowned.

"He reminded you of what?"

"Of… of…" Sweets seemed to curl tighter in on himself, crossing his arms back over his stomach, his knuckles white as he clutched the sides of his shirt in his hands. "I… before. A long…" He seemed unable to string together his thoughts, but realization was quickly dawning on Booth.

"It reminded you of stuff that's happened before. A long time ago." Sweets made no indication that the agent had been correct, but he was fairly sure he had drawn the correct conclusions. He leaned forward, trying to catch the psychologist's eyes. "You'll never be that boy again, you know." Sweets was still silent. "I know that sometimes you get reminded of it, and a tiny, hidden part of you is scared that the old pattern will come back – that that stuff will start happening again – but it won't." Sweets continued to stare at his knees. "You know, bud… don't tell anyone, but sometimes I get… nervous… just because of certain things that remind me of… him, but I know… I know that it's over. It's okay to get nervous, you know."

"I took a pill." Booth looked at the psychologist nervously.

"You… what did you take?" Sweets pulled the bottle out of his pocket and handed it to the agent. Booth read the prescription. "You had a panic attack?" Sweets said nothing, still staring determinedly at his lap, avoiding the agent's gaze. "Well, if you were supposed to take these, I'm glad you did, kid." He stood up, and walked over to crouch down in front of the younger man. "Although, I wish you'd talked to me when it happened, you know."

"Nothing to talk about." Booth put a hand on Sweets's shoulder.

"Buddy, you got punched in the face by one of your patients, and it freaked you out enough for you to have a panic attack," Sweets frowned, about to defend himself when Booth continued, "and that's okay, but you're always trying to make us talk about… what did you call it? Scary feelings? And you should too." Sweets shook his head, tears springing unwittingly to his eyes as he thought of the blind panic he'd felt as he saw Agent Moore tower over him, sending a large fist into his face as he cowered in fear, apologizing repeatedly for the fault he hadn't been aware he'd committed. It had taken him straight back to when he'd been a tiny boy, cowering in fear from a different man, saying sorry over and over again as the blows rained down on his small, frail form, not understanding what he could have done so wrong to deserve the pain.

Booth sighed as he saw the tears welling in Sweets's eyes, and with a murmured, "Just this once," he pulled the younger man to him roughly, holding him in a tight embrace. They stayed there for a few moments before Booth pulled back, keeping his hands on the psychologist's shoulders. "You know, if Moore hadn't left already I'd…but there's no use thinking about that. I heard you let him off easy? Said he needed therapy but that he shouldn't lose his job?" Sweets nodded. "Woah. Kid, I would not have given him that option. He _hit _you."

"He's just in a bad place. It was my professional opinion. He can work through it." Booth smiled, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

"You know, bud, you may be a lanky kid, but there is a lot more to you that people don't see. You're pretty damn tough. Trust in that. You're going to be fine."


End file.
